Free Disgrace by Dee Palmer Page B

Her lips falter with her first attempt to smile at my comment. She swallows thickly and draws in a deep, slow breath.
    “I need to leave.” She drops her head and averts her eyes. I try for calm, but it comes out as a frustrated, loud exhale. She shifts to move but I just grip a little tighter.
    “You need to talk to me.” She shakes her head.
    “Jason, you don’t want this…trust me. This is all wrong.” Her voice catches, and I don’t know whether to shake her or just hold her some more. I hold her. I lift her chin up so she can see my eyes. I have to credit her strength because she doesn’t shy from the contact. “I can’t give you what you want.”
    “I want you, so I think you can.” I know she feels unbearable sadness for whatever reason, but I won’t let her give up on this. I flash my most confident smile, which causes her brows to wrinkle with suspicion. Suspicion is better than sadness. “You would feel more comfortable at home?”
    “I would.” Her voice is filled with resignation. She closes her eyes this time, but not before I see the hurt settle in deep. She drops her head, again.
    “Okay.” I lift us both from the bed and place her carefully on her feet. Her hands reach for my hips to steady herself, but she quickly lets go. I don’t say a word when she turns and walks away. I don’t speak as we both quietly put our clothes back on, and I remain silent until she is sitting in the passenger seat of my car.
    “I won’t be a moment. I have to lock up.” She doesn’t even look up just nods and stares at her cupped hands. Now I happen to fucking love submissive gestures like this, but this is fucking killing me. I slam the door, making her jump. It takes me less than five minutes to pack my duffle bag with enough clothes to last the week. I throw the bag over my shoulder into the back seat when I slide into the front.
    “Home?” I check one more time.
    “Please.” Her voice is such a sad whisper I want to reach over and pull her into my arms all over again, and I will…soon. “I’m sorry Jason,” she adds. Her eyes shine with moisture, and I have to grip the wheel to prevent myself from tearing her from her seat. She needs to be home…where she feels safe.
    “I know.” I rev the engine to a loud roar so I’m not sure she heard me, but she has already retreated in on herself, so it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is getting her to talk to me, and she won’t do that unless she feels safe.
    The streets are empty, dark and rightly deserted. I keep casting my eyes her way and notice she has dipped her head and tilted to see the Christmas lights that hang across some of the main London roads. She’s smiling, so I decide to take the long way home, weaving my way down every festively lit street I know. She turns her head to me when she realises what I’m doing, her smile is brighter than a million Christmas lights. No one in their right mind would actually chose to drive around London, deliberately picking longer routes. But it’s Christmas Day, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see a lonesome bushel sweeping down Bond Street.
    This year, the most expensive shopping destination in town has large white peacock feathers spanning the width and running the entire length of the road. A canopy of mock diamonds sparkle overhead, a poor cousin to those on display in the Graff or Cartier windows or the ones that still lie flush against Sam’s neck.
    We drive slowly along Piccadilly. The arcades on either side tend to go all out with the decorations, and this year is no exception. But the window displays are always worth checking out. I pull up and park outside Harrods, something that would have you clamped and fined within five minutes on any other day. Each window has a fairy tale theme, and the one we are looking at is Cinderella . I don’t think they could’ve fit anymore sparkle in that tiny space.
    “Beautiful,” I say but I don’t mean the display because that pales